


Hypnopompic

by wickedwanton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 17:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedwanton/pseuds/wickedwanton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Semi-consciousness before awakening.  By Nocturnias' request.  Amazing what you can hear when no one thinks you're listening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hypnopompic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nocturnias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnias/gifts).



Resting was something he didn’t do well at the best of times. It was infuriating! Full unconsciousness had been troublesome for him for decades, since a long string of vivid nightmares in his early teens. He learned to put it off with caffeine, taught himself the technique of lucid dreaming, and when all else failed, he would simply push. Push past all limits, all boundaries, all common sense, until he was sure he would drop instantaneously from consciousness to deepest sleep in seconds. The ridiculousness of REM sleep would startle him awake, but if needed, he could drop back into stages three and four, where he could rest dreamless until his body got what it needed. It was a concession, but one he couldn’t avoid.

This was different. He could vaguely remember the impact over his temporal lobe, the sudden smell and feeling of a nosebleed, and then a long period of nothing. He had been on a case; he remembered that, a sense it was concluding. John had been yelling something, but he couldn’t remember what. He’d be worried about his friend, but he could hear John droning on about sport scores somewhere to his right. He remembered a joke he wanted to inflict the next time John got too sports obsessed; that the venereal disease rate in the team’s home city had made the players afraid to score. That should have earned him at least one ‘make your own damned tea!’ 

Whatever the injury, he was obviously healing, but it was taking an abysmally long time. For at least three days, he’d been floating like this in his own mind, unable to move, open his eyes, respond to the outside world, but his mind and his hearing were active. Bored, but active. For two days, he had enough awareness of his limbs to know nothing was encased in plaster or heavily bandaged, so he assumed the rest of him was relatively undamaged. His sense of smell came back yesterday and he wished it hadn’t. The orderly that came in periodically to move him to prevent bed sores had atrocious hygiene habits. He thought he was regaining his hands, but hadn’t been able to move them enough to attract attention. 

His hospital room seemed to be a regular stop on the tour. Mrs. Hudson had only been in once, but had wept so heartbreakingly that he hoped John would discourage her from future visits. Lestrade came in once a day, never staying long, but his jokes were so terrible that his future visits were dreaded. Donovan came in once, never speaking, but he could identify her by the pattern of her gum cracking. Anderson may have been with her but he couldn’t be bothered to tell.

John was here twice a day, probably both on his way to and on his way home from work. He had no idea how long he’d been totally oblivious, but it was long enough that John had built a routine: news headlines, any interesting messages from the blog, and quick notes about what he was seeing at the clinic. John had a date with a new girl (another?) yesterday and was seeing her again tonight. He always knew when John would get ready to leave because the pleading would begin. It had been oddly touching the first few times he had heard it, but now it just added to his frustrations. If he could open his eyes, he would! He wasn’t just stretched out here so John had to get his own milk! It wasn’t fair to be ranting at him, but conversely, if John couldn’t hear the rant, did it count?

Oddly, the visits he found himself waiting for were from Molly. He had fully expected she would cry even more than Mrs. Hudson, grip his hand hard enough to bruise, make some painful declaration, then start that wet hiccupping noise children made when they can’t find words. Instead, she was at least distracting, usually entertaining, even occasionally engaging. This was the Molly he heard other people speak of, but he never seemed to meet face to face. She came and sat with him at least once a day, but sometimes he would hear her talking to the nurses in the hall, checking his progress.

He could smell coffee; Molly was here. 

“Oh, sorry, John. I thought you’d gone by now. I’ll just wait out here.”

“No, Molly, it’s fine. I was about to leave. Please stay”

The odd assortment of sounds must have been her tote bag being placed on the floor. He never could figure out what all she carried in it or why. The smell of the coffee got stronger and he heard the now familiar clicking sound of a disposable lighter being placed on a table near his head. She leaned in, a new perfume; the scent of bergamot and roses. Too heavy, too old for her. She was whispering, spearmint breeze across his cheek.

“You brought him coffee?”

“Pungent aroma. He may be able to smell it.”

“And the lighter?”

“I know he hates this jumper. I told him if he sits up I’ll get a metal bin and let him burn every last cherry off it!”

“It’s a Friday night. You don’t have a date?”

“Just with tall, dark and silent. I even brought dinner.”

She couldn’t have... He heard the bag rattle and thought he could smell just the smallest hint of chicken, orange peel and soy sauce. It had to be dim sum. Wasn’t there something in the Geneva Convention forbidding her from torturing him like this? She must have taken the chair; he could feel John perch on the edge of the bed.

“Molly, um… I don’t mean to pry, but you’ve been spending a lot of time here. I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Well, I do work here.”

“That’s not what I meant. I know you have…feelings for him. It’s just…this is a Friday night. If you don’t have a date, you should at least be off with your friends, meeting people, having a good time.”

She laughed, but it wasn’t the slightly jarring giggle she sometimes made around him. Instead, it sounded bitter, broken. He hadn’t caused that, had he? He had to admit he had wondered about some of the things John was bringing up, but frankly he didn’t want the answers right now. This Molly, the one who didn’t stammer or over think every word was too interesting.

“You know, John, you’re so wrong in so many different directions that I don’t even know where to begin. If this is what it’s like for Sherlock when he’s trying to explain his deductions, he’s got my sympathies. It’s a wonder he doesn’t just walk around smacking people!”

“Molly…”

“No, John. You started this and I’m going to finish it, so just sit down and shut up!”

Even without being able to see her face, he knew how furious she was. He’d never heard her so angry! He almost wished John would get a photo of her so he could see it later. Did her cheeks turn scarlet or had she went pale in her fury? He would have assumed she was making fists except he could hear her fingernails beating a staccato on the metal arm of the chair. He could picture her eyes flashing. She pushed the chair back, pacing, her trainers squeaking on the hospital floor when she turned.

“First off, my personal life is not up for judging! You’re my friend, not my father! I will spend my time wherever and with whomever I please without having to explain it to you or get your permission! Do you ask Sherlock when his last date was? His last night out with the boys? Of course not! You can handle the thought of him alone for the rest of his life, but not me? Newsflash, Doctor, I’m pretty good company. There are a lot of things in this world worse than being alone.”

“So you’ve given up?”

“My last date was Tuesday. Dr. Stanley from neurology, one of Sherlock’s doctors. He bored me so badly I wanted to stab him with my pasta fork before the entrees arrived. His goodnight kiss should have come with roller towel. Before that was a week ago Wednesday, a cardiologist from Royal London. All he wanted to talk about was near-death experiences. I faked an emergency call from a friend and left him at the restaurant. Two weeks before that was…”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…”

“Of course you didn’t! You don’t live with me! And I’m smart enough not to let any of them close to you or Sherlock unless I think it may be going somewhere!”

“I’m just surprised I didn’t hear anything from the rumor mill.”

“John, is it true that when you kiss a girl you…”

He does what? It must be some kind of hand gesture or.., This was just not fair! He needed a translator! And why had she dated Dr. Stanley? The man smelled like paprika!

“I kissed Linda Hancock like that once when I’d had a little too much at the pub!”

“The rumor mill says you’ve done it at least six different times with four different women. I thought you did it just to stop the rumors about you and Sherlock! I wouldn’t count the mill as a source!”

“And your friends? They aren’t having fun?”

“Another hen night tonight. I seem to be losing my taste for alcohol. Besides, it would be nice if one of the bridesmaids wasn’t swaying at the wedding tomorrow.”

Sounds of the chair moving again. She must have finally opened the takeaway boxes because the smell was killing him. When he could move again, he might relocate a little farther down Baker Street and eat until he went back into a coma. He idly wondered who was getting married tomorrow, but was sure if it was important, Molly would have mentioned it by now. She must have offered John a dumpling because he was talking around a mouthful.

“So you’ve gotten over Sherlock then?”

“You’re going to give me a brain injury in a minute!”

“No, I just thought…I don’t know.”

“There’s no ‘getting over’ your flat mate, John. You know that as well as I do. We both love him. Can you imagine walking away because I certainly can’t. I’d follow him through the gates of hell, but I’m sure the devil would lock him out.”

“Wouldn’t matter. He’d just pick the lock.”

“Another dumpling?”

They both sounded amused, maybe even a bit proud, and it touched him more than he thought it should. He certainly hadn’t made their lives any easier. Okay, in a lot of ways he’d made them considerably harder. He wasn’t oblivious to the chaos he seemed to cause; the peril both of them had been in due to association with him. Moriarty alone could have cost either of them their lives or more, yet they both stayed. Sentiment was harder to resent when he gained the benefit. John did not ask a question.

“You’re still in love with him.”

“Forever and always, Doctor Watson. It doesn’t really matter. He’s had my heart for a long time. Nothing to be done for it. I seem to be able to live without it.”

“He’s so awful to you sometimes.”

“Says the man who found a metacarpal in the pot when he poured his second cup of tea.”

“I’ve seen him make you cry.”

“What is it he says? ‘You see but you don’t observe’? You see me cry, you don’t observe me not punching him in the face no matter how strongly he asks for it. It’s probably less stressful for me than you or Lestrade since I’ve got an outlet!”

“Ordering you around to get him coffee…”

“Bluntly asking, and that’s pretty rich from the guy who will fetch him his mobile phone from his own pocket!”

“Okay, we’re both crazy.”

“Agreed. But it’s never boring.”

They were both laughing now, John’s laugh so familiar, but Molly’s laugh so new. What happens to this Molly when he’s actually in on the conversation? And he didn’t have her heart. It would be far too large to hold.

“John, can I make one more observation?”

“Okay, sure. But then I have a question”

“Sherlock does know how to behave despite anything you’ve written up in your blog. Someone taught him the patterns of social behavior and he knows full well when he steps over the boundaries. But he doesn’t have any of those patterns for the personal. With you, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, even me sometimes, he doesn’t know what to do. We got past some of his defenses and I think it confuses him. I don’t think he’s ever going to be normal Please don’t try to make him normal. It’s a miracle you’ve gotten this close. Don’t risk that for anything. So what’s your question?”

“You don’t hold his hand here. You put his fingertips on your wrist. Why?”

“We’ve never held hands but he used to check my pulse sometimes in the lab. It just seemed the thing to do. So who is it tonight, Lisa?”

“No, Wendy, and I’m late. Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Probably not. I’ll stop in after the reception, but you’ll have gone home by then.”

“Okay, Sunday. It’s a date.”

“No it isn’t.”

The swish of John’s coat as he went out the door. His hand was raised, and then he could feel the rhythm beneath his fingers. Wrists could be extraordinarily sensitive. A long pause.

“Sherlock, I hate to break this to you, but I never learned Morse code. Always assuming I’m not losing my mind, let’s try the old ‘one for yes, two for no’ pattern, okay? You can hear me? Are you a vampire? Hey, I had to ask a ‘no’ question to be sure! Okay, death by embarrassment later. Do you want me to call John? Text John? Good. I’ve met Wendy and he’s wasting his time. I’ll be right back.”

She stayed in the room but pulled her wrist away to send the text. He thought she’d moved to the door, checked the hallway before returning to the bedside.

“I didn’t give John any details. He should be here in a half hour or so. Until then…no oxygen tanks or other combustibles…”

Cellophane crinkling, foil tearing…oh, Molly, you bad girl! The flick of the flint wheel.

“John would kill me for this! Don’t give the poor nurses fits and I’ll hide the rest in your shaving kit.”

Bergamot and roses drawing nearer and then the slightly bitter acrid cloud. Ohhhh. This could be the beginning of…he had absolutely no idea.


End file.
